Deadlocked
by palomino333
Summary: Request fic. Sniper answered plainly, "I'm a hunter and an assassin because there isn't any changing it." Takes place after Meet the Pyro.


This request took a serious amount of work to fill. I encountered problems with it between characterizing Sniper and Engineer, as well as the plot and historical details. I'm unsure as to whether this is 100% historically accurate, and I know that my interpretation of Sniper probably does not mesh with the canon version. What I ended up with was a character piece that took the majority of the summer to figure out how to write properly. Am I happy to be finished with it? Yes. Am I happy with myself for how long it took me to formulate and write this? No.

This story carries continuity with my previous fanfics, most notably Tin Man and Cage of Flames. Also, I think Sniper and Engineer would have an awesome bromance. And I referenced Disney in a story about a couple that might resemble Mickey and Mallory from Natural Born Killers. There's a special place in Hell for me, isn't there?

* * *

"Steady, steady…" Sniper murmured to himself, bracing his one arm upon the sill of the lookout window. The low light of the sunset cast a slight glare upon the scene, reflecting off of the metal surfaces of the scaffolding in the distance. Heat waves radiated upward from the earth as he aimed the barrel carefully, the crosshairs settling over his target. He licked his dry lips once before squeezing the trigger.

With a clang, the last can of paint propped up upon the fence post fell to the ground to roll. With a self-satisfied grin, Sniper stood from his crouched position. Holding his rifle firmly aloft with one hand, he brushed off his pant legs. A perfect row of five targets culminated this round, as it had the previous three rounds, and as such, he had grown a little weary of the game. Even so, he knew there was still room for improvement; two of the cans hadn't fallen clean off, and it had taken him longer than usual to line up his scope due to the glare of the setting sun.

Then again, he reminded himself as he carefully climbed down from the lookout post, foot by foot, he did have an excuse: minimal action. He swiped off his hat to rub his forehead with the back of his arm. To say that Pyro had been a little hard on the BLU team was an understatement. A hiatus was called until the BLU team's base could be rebuilt from the ground up, and for now, it remained indefinite. The opposing team, having no quarters of which to call their own, had been dismissed from the desert to return home for the time being. The RED team, on the other hand, had no such luck. They would remain on-site to, as the official orders put it, strengthen their tactics and training in the absence of battle.

Pyro was still Pyro, as far as anyone was concerned. The skeletal trappings of the BLU base were reflected in Sniper's aviators as he stared out at them. The fires that night had been startling in their intensity, blazing through the darkness. He and his teammates had pulled a late shift, taking care to keep the inferno from spreading into their territory by beating it back with water hoses. And through that fire had come Pyro, his flamethrower releasing bursts of air to put his own disastrous design out.

Still, it was better to avoid him for now, especially considering the air was so dry as of late. Pyro had a long fuse, so to speak, but it was wiser to not provoke any sense of unhappiness within him. His likes and dislikes were rather basic, and almost childlike, in a way. While Sniper deemed himself no expert on the man, and rightfully so, as he wished to keep contact with him minimal, he did still recognize his habits. Pyro was heavily attached to that rubber duck of his, and that was made evident by the fact that he held it so close to his breast while carrying it to the showers, and how he took it with him to his bunk. Naturally, the duck was rather worn, its one eye missing and its beak bent, but he didn't seem to care. Added to that were some other odd quirks, such as his wearing of rather odd hats (the sombrero and the toilet plunger were favorites, although the latter didn't really count), and his habit of lighting on fire magazines or stray pieces of paper or linen, thus completing the picture of a rather eccentric individual, to say the very least.

A faceless one at that, as far as anyone on the team was concerned. Pyro's face beneath the mask was known, of course, by his team, his headshot being on file. Even so, Sniper seldom if ever saw him with it off. Just what he thought he was hiding, he had no clue. The scars were plain as day to see upon that photograph. He guessed that somewhere in the recesses of his convoluted mind, Pyro wanted to preserve what little dignity he had left by hiding his old injuries, but it was still disquieting to see that empty, bug-eyed mask swing around.

"Hell of a shot, mister," Engineer commended from where he reclined, his stocky frame stretched out upon a lawn car, at the base of Sniper's lookout. His head was braced upon his arms, which were criss-crossed behind it.

Sniper sniffed, and spat in the opposite direction from him. "Quit your bullshit, Engie. You know I'm not up to snuff."

He shrugged at that. "Hell of a shot for not being 'up to snuff,' then."

Sniper slung his rifle over his shoulder as he came to stand beside him. "Beer?" Engineer asked, lifting a hand to put down at the small carrying container beside him. Three full bottles remained, while a fourth sat open beside him.

He shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I might head back up to try again later. 'Sides, I've been drinking half my weight in decaf all day."

"Suit yourself," he replied, reaching down to grasp the slim shape of the beer bottle. He tipped his head back to generously take a drink, the amber liquid slipping down to enter his throat.

Sniper chuckled at his action, and turned away. "You aren't gonna tempt me. I've already had enough. Shouldn't you be practicing, as well?"

"Nah, it'd be a waste of time, effort, and metal. No need to beef up our defenses when there's no one around to try and break through."

Sniper snorted. "And that gives you an excuse to sit on your fat arse."

Engineer smirked, tipping the side of his helmet up. "I can have a lazy day for once in a while."

"You got any new toys to show us?" Sniper asked with a slight sigh as he sat down upon the ground next to the lawn chair, folding his legs together, and placing his hands over them.

The beer bottle clunked against the chair's leg as it fell back to the ground, and Engineer turned to look at him, lifting his goggles up onto his helmet. "Got one, but you'll be more likely to laugh at it than much else."

"Try me," he replied with a flip of his hat down over his face.

"I made us a baby sentry."

"Beg your pardon?" Sniper asked, lifting his hat with the tip of his pointer finger.

Engineer shrugged. "Exactly as I said. I updated the schematic for the sentries, and made a much smaller version. It's quicker to build, and it can fire faster. I can also move it quicker. Downsides, though, are that the mini sentry, as I call it, is easier to destroy, and doesn't have as much firing power."

Sniper smirked at that. "That's kind of ya, to invent a playmate for Scout. I'm sure he'd appreciate it."

With a chuckle, the Southerner replied, "Believe it or not, the runt actually inspired this, in a way. I got fed up with the kid's whining about wanting a sentry or dispenser every five minutes, and since yelling at him about it wouldn't change anything, I decided to fix my tactics. I doubt it'll pacify him for long, but we could definitely benefit from having something closer to the front lines," he smirked, "What can I say, I'm a softie on the inside."

"Don't tell the kid that, though," Sniper warned, "It'd give him something new to gloat over."

"'Course not," Engineer agreed with a tug of his overall strap, "In the meantime, I've been handling the legal paperwork for this little darling of mine. If you wanna look, I can set one up for ya."

"Sure," he replied, leaning forward with interest.

"Much obliged." Engineer tipped his helmet at the prospect of showing off. Reaching beneath the lawn chair, he fumbled about, metal clanking as he attempted to completely grasp the handle of the tool box. It slipped out of his hand a few times, causing him to groan in annoyance.

With a grunt, he at least tugged it out, the polished box clanking as it hit the ground before him, sending up a small cloud of dust. "All right, let's do this."

Sniper leaned in interestedly as Engineer unlocked the toolbox, slowly pulling open the lid to lie gently against the ground. He squinted behind his sunglasses at the sunlight glinting off of the metal parts. "You can build a sentry out of them? They're so small."

Engineer cracked his knuckles. "You underestimate how I can work my magic."

Sniper smirked, backing out of the way as his friend slowly began to unload the parts. Reaching back, "I assume you don't want me to watch you?" He asked.

"A good magician never reveals his secrets," he replied with a chuckle.

Sniper took his cue, standing to stride off a short distance. "Call me when you need me to look."

Clanging sounded as Engineer banged the wrench against the parts. "It doesn't take me that long."

Sniper waved a hand as a he came to a stop. Shifting his weight from leg to leg with an audible cracking sound, he relaxed his pose. It boggled his mind at times how Engineer and Soldier could hail from the same country, if only due to the disparity in their intelligences. Soldier had often remarked upon how Sniper must have felt right at home in New Mexico, as he must not, he deduced, have any longing toward his home in Australia. If anything, he was glad to spend time away from the base. Pyro's destructive tendencies were costing him his leave, as well. It had originally been scheduled for the coming fourth week. The extended time that the RED team would need to remain in the field, however, removed the concrete foundation from the promise.

To be honest, home was quite a likable prospect. Mum had wanted to see him, anyway. If Dad would at last learn how to swallow his foolish pride, maybe he would talk to him again. Mum always tried to pin it on him, saying he was the more proud, and that as a son, it was his duty to understand his responsibility in the feud between them. Sniper, for as much as he did love his dear mother, wished she knew when to keep her nose out of things. True, the verbal battles between the two did occur under her roof, but she was merely a neutral party, one that tried to moderate their behavior. They could take it outside, anyway. If anything, he hoped that he could simply take his mother to lunch, or out for a drive, and simply talk about something inconsequential. Maybe it could be of his childhood, or of how the neighbors were doing, whatever, so long as it took his mind off of his father or his job for a while.

"And there we go!" Engineer exclaimed, a mechanical whirr following his words as the sentry started up.

Sniper turned, and smiled broadly. "Well Engie, I certainly can't call you a liar."

The mini-sentry's red light blinked as it spun back and forth quickly, seeking out a target. Engineer chuckled at his success. Placing his metallic hand upon the top of the mini-sentry's light, he grinned with pride. "'Ol Dell may have created the Gunslinger, but I managed to get ahead of him this time." He smiled bitterly, lifting his man-made hand into the air to turn it back and forth. "When I was a kid, Mom and Dad asked me that old question, 'If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?' Guess I did."

Sniper frowned. "Mate, it's okay. You did what you had to do for the war effort."

Engineer lowered his hand. "We both sung that tune before."

Sniper shrugged. "And the world still sings it now."

Engineer sighed. "If it's all the same to you, let's not talk politics today."

Sniper nodded. "Wouldn't dream of it. Being here is almost like a vacation from all of it." He shrugged, "Emphasis on the 'almost,' at that."

"Mind if we did talk something, though?" He inquired, the mirth from earlier draining further from him.

Sniper smiled, taking his seat upon Engineer's lawn chair, and splaying out his legs. "What do you have in mind?"

The Southerner sat down near his creation. "When you mentioned about me giving to the war effort, it brought back a few memories."

The Aussie tilted his head to the side. "Swapping tales of the war like Solly tries to do?"

Engie sighed, turning away to look over his shoulder. "World didn't make much sense back then. Still doesn't now."

"'Course it doesn't," Sniper agreed, "The guys here indicate that enough."

"You served, I think?" Engineer placed forward in an attempt to start the conversation.

Sniper nodded. "Couldn't call myself a son of Australia otherwise. I think you said you were a combat engineer?"

"Yes, sir." He chuckled, "I think I would have made Spy proud with my tampering."

Sniper grinned. "Never quite phased you, did it?"

Engineer shook his head. "Like hell it didn't. I never did get used to digging up landmines, but the procedure was one I knew like the back of my hand, if that goes for anything."

"'Least you didn't get caught."

Engineer tensed where he sat, but the Aussie waved a hand. "Not your fault; I chose to bring it up, didn't I?"

He nodded, and silence that was only interrupted by the sounds of the mini sentry followed for a few moments. At last, Engineer asked, "Does it still hurt ya now?"

Sniper shook his head. "Less than you think. Still, joke's on our team, the way I see it. Yeah, BLU team is inexperienced right now, but old war dogs like you and me are running out of steam. When we leave, RED'll be taking all the losses."

"And you couldn't give a damn less," Engineer commented, noticing the flippancy in his friend's tone.

Sniper shrugged. "It's a contract, mate, not the end-all be-all. 'Sides, I'll be able to get back to hunting when this is over."

Though as to what sort of hunting, however, he decided not to further elaborate. Through his scope back home, he had sought out a rather diverse array of trophies. Sniper recalled the sweat that beaded upon his brow as he lay quietly low in wait, licking his lip in anticipation as the water buffalo grazed, flicking the buzzing flies with its tail. Laid-back and seemingly harmless though the animal was, a provocation, however slight, would have brought his death.

He certainly wouldn't have been the first casualty. The infamous tale of the ill-fated outlaw poacher McLeach had been proof enough of such. Though the neither the son-of-a-bitch's remains, nor those of his pet goanna, had truly been found, the conclusion was easy to draw from the last sighting of him going over the falls. Sniper at least had the brains in his head to put any thought of hunting Marahute from his mind. McLeach had already sullied such a hunt with his failed sadistic means to an end, not to say anything of the rarity of the bird.

The water buffalo, by contrast, remained up for grabs, and became Sniper's most treasured hunt. Felled by a single shot to the head, the buffalo had marked the perfect kill. Man had triumphed over a deadly foe. Yet as he stripped the carcass of its meat, up to his elbows in blood, and organs piled off to the side, Sniper knew that it just as easily could have been him to have fallen that day, gored mercilessly by the once-docile creature.

Suffice to say, he compared his success to gunning down the BLU Heavy. However, the exception lay that he did not know the BLU's temperament, as opposed to that of the RED. His teammate was all right enough, he surmised, not confrontational off the battlefield unless provoked. Grafting that persona onto the BLU as he aimed from his nest, he shot home, cutting down the fat bastard in mid-run to the covered bridge that connected the RED and BLU bases. "I just bagged the world's fattest man!"

Yet the comparison did unsettle him, all the same. In the dusty backyard of his childhood home, he pounced haplessly upon the scurrying skinks. Unused to his rather lanky and limber frame as he grew, young Mundy found himself hitting the dirt rather roughly, the blue tongues of his prey slipping out in mockery.

Looking back on it, he figured he would have tapered off from the hunt, had the world altered its course. Fascinated by the fauna of his home, he had plunged himself into the pages of biology, thumbing through volume after volume of encyclopedias, and viewing photographs of lands he could only dream of. The adolescent drifted off to the frigid waters of the Antarctic, caught the calming breeze of the Caribbean Sea, and sweltered under the African heat, if only in his own mind.

Red light beat down upon him as he flipped over a developing photograph. Suspended above him on the clothesline were several others, detailing the images of animals that others would have found exotic, whereas he saw as mundane. Highlighted in the encyclopedias were places to travel, and scrawled down in notebooks were the figures behind each excursion. Sniper knew, in retrospect, that it had been utterly baseless, as had his any pretensions of becoming otherwise. While his interests had laid before him a path of perhaps a veterinarian at the least, and an exotic animal researcher at the most, such notions had been pure fantasy. Snapped pencils and bloodshot eyes from long nights of studying had revealed his lack of academic aptitude in the required fields, and a low financial situation from his parents had effectively closed off the route of proper schooling.

But then came the call to protect his home, and he was whisked away to boot camp. "After the war I'll" this, and "After the war I'll" that, it was all the same. His bunkmates would speak and dream of wives and children, rewarding careers, piles of money, and the most utterly perverse, yet utterly idealized, sex with the pin-up girl of the week, as well as any fictionalized sisters she may or may not have had after long days filled with marches and push-ups. But then reality snatched them from it. Heat stroke and malnourishment took them, their bodies unceremoniously buried under the scorching earth.

Work, work, work, eat a little. The cane his captors presented him with elongated with each passing day, it seemed, the carrot growing further and further away. The Japanese never took prisoners, he had been told, though that had not necessarily proven to be the truth. Still, he had wondered half the time if he was better off dead. Mundy was always what Engineer termed a "string bean," but the sheer emaciated state he had been placed into terrified him tremendously. He saw it in himself and his fellow prisoners, worked half to death, skin stretched tightly over exposed bone. He could count his ribs easily, and wondered if he could hear his own bones rattle when he walked.

Framed in the sun, he remembered, the halo was supposed to mark an angel. It was anything but as the Japanese sergeant viciously beat him into the ground with a club until he lay upon it, too tired to get up. White hot pain exploded in his legs, the sergeant screaming at him in sheer, cold anger until Mundy crawled away, his mouth full of sand, and his face burning from the sheer heat.

Dead men swung from the gallows, their crimes being of serving for the wrong side, or simply trying to find more food. Convict the Japanese brass of war crimes, it didn't matter, really. It didn't bring any of the guys back. Scars bore into his skin, his back, arms, and legs. It was little shock that Mundy and his fellow surviving prisoners reacted in the way they did when the hands of friends laid the generous food before them, but it stung no less. Picking up the fork was painful, his stomach growling hard, and his mouth simply too tired to properly chew it, until he was forced to put the fork down altogether. So hungry, but he simply couldn't eat. The tears stung the corners of his eyes, and spilled over to run down his cheeks.

He couldn't go back to his photos and his books, they were meaningless now. The homeland he had fought for, as was lionized by public opinion, never forgot him and his brothers, alive and deceased, but it also didn't understand him. Yet, sitting upon the back porch of his home, staring out aimlessly at his father's fields, he caught the flicker of movement once more. Swinging his glance down to the steps, Mundy caught the tip of a lizard's tail vanishing off the side of them.

But the camera only did so much, and it still lay within the closet of his old room. Buried in a box filled with its old photos and camera attachments, it remained untouchable as the naughty magazines that lay atop it.

Place a gun in his hand, he could fire it now, he could hit a man. The cowardice he had mistaken for morality had been drilled out of him at boot camp, and the switch was expected to turn off once every man had been discharged. A slight noise, why are you dropping to the ground? It's only the phone ringing. Why fear the crowds? They are friends. At least Mundy had an edge on the latter; being an introvert at heart before the war, his behavior was not considered deviant.

But the knowledge would not drop. He could handle a gun, clean it, fire it. Handle it, clean it, fire it. Handle it, shave, clean it, shower, fire it, brush teeth. Handle it, sleep, clean it, eat, fire it, work the fields. Handle, clean, fire. He was frightened of it, yet enticed by it. His father was merely glad that he had allowed his fantasies of exotic animals to pass, so he could focus on taking over the family farm.

That was, until young Mundy took the truck one day, saying he was going to the store. Handle, clean, fire. The license to handle his very own firearm was now his. Crack shot he had proven himself to be when the targets were not living, breathing men, Mundy turned his sights toward the sniper rifle.

They were animals, they were different. They were not skeletal men like him. Staring into the mirror night after night, shirtless, he poked at his skin, and felt shocked at how soft it now felt. And soon would follow the guilt and shame. Why was he allowed to live, when others were not? He didn't want to think on it.

Perhaps that was what made it so fitting, this cycle of respawn. Sniper didn't consider himself to be religious, but he supposed that he was within his own cycle of reincarnation until he reached Enlightenment. But what was there to be Enlightened on, and how he could know when he was Enlightened? Questions, questions, questions, on and on and on. Engineer was intelligent, but in terms of the practical. Aristotle stood at his side, his hand hovering over the earth, while Sniper considered a necessity for a Plato, the finger pointed skyward.

"Meant to ask," Engie began, "How's the little lady?"

Sniper smiled warmly. "Misses me dearly, so the letters say."

"Think you and her…?" Engineer's voice trailed off.

Sniper sighed. "Mate, I don't know, and Imogen doesn't seem to care one way or another at this point. It ain't for everybody."

XXXXXX

"Darling, I gotta go."

The brush thumped as it hit the top of the dresser, ebony hairs sticking up from it. The fan overhead chopped at the air. She shrugged her dark shoulders with a sigh, the sleeve of the white, unbuttoned shirt she wore dipping down to reveal her white bra strap.

Attracted by the movement, both in its vulnerability, and in the sexual appeal of it, Sniper drew toward her from behind. His hand was warm as it touched her stomach, his arm wound around her waist. She grasped his fingers softly with her free hand. Turning his head, he buried his face in the side of her neck, inhaling the scents of sex, her sweat, and the small trace of perfume that she had sprayed on herself.

Her breath caught at the tickle of his breath on her neck, and Sniper nuzzled it affectionately. His other hand slipped down to her inner thigh. "Oh," she murmured, "But I would miss you."

He smiled at that. "I don't doubt that, love."

"Ken-" She cut herself off with a gasp, arching up as his fingers ghosted over her inner thigh.

Sniper's smile grew at her reaction. "What is it, Imogen?"

She shook her head. "Ken," she gasped as his hand slid higher, "Ken, wait a minute."

His hand slipped away. "What's wrong?"

She grasped his hand, and he loosened it at the warmth that he felt from it. "What're you hunting this week?"

He grinned. "That Spy, for first."

She groaned, and he lifted his head to see her glare in the mirror. With a slight smile, he curled his hand through her hair, and lifted it in the air to tangle his hand further through it. Imogen smirked. "I'll have to brush it out again."

He smirked back at her. "I like it better this way."

Switching her gaze down to her favored headscarf upon the dresser, striped in bright yellow and pink, she replied, "I'll just have to remember that then, won't I?"

He pulled back his head slightly to kiss the back of her shoulder. "'Least you caught him, love. Though, I don't expect any less from you."

Imogen smiled. "Thank you. It's how we get by, after all."

Sniper pulled up at that. "Anybody I should know about lately?"

"Other than that Spy 'friend' of yours," she replied simply, "Though I will give him the fact that he was rather creative in his attempts to replicate you." She shook her head. "I don't care what you do with your piss, but having a jar of it set on my dresser was rather shocking."

Sniper laughed, letting go of her. "I was wondering where that jar went."

Imogen rolled her eyes. "I suppose it's understandable, how he must think we're so uncivilized. I live in the neighborhood of a practical rubbish bin, after all."

Sniper straightened up. "Now come on, don't talk like that."

She turned to look at him, pulling up her bra strap. "Kenneth, come on, I thought we were past this already. I don't necessarily live in the best of places."

"And I live in a van," he finished with a shrug, "'Course I know that, but we aren't animals." He meaningfully glanced over at his sniper rifle, which was propped up against the side wall. "I hunt 'em, after all. I should know the difference by now. Game and mercs, they ain't so different. Just one happens to wear clothes."

"Ever see them outside of work?" Imogen asked curiously.

He folded his arms in thought, looking away. "Haven't yet, but it's not as if I'm looking. Be too awkward, anyway."

"True," she agreed, "How're your parents?"

Sniper snorted. "Dad's enjoying his social security quite well. Can't say the old bastard doesn't deserve to have it, but I wish he'd shut up about it. He keeps going on and on about how I won't get that check in my line of work."

Imogen scowled. "At least he can have one. For as much as my family is a 'victim of its own inadequacy,' as our government so tactfully declares us to be, Mum and Dad will not see any of that money." Closing her eyes, she put a hand to her forehead. "Sorry, I shouldn't have complained. It becomes bothersome after a while, is all."

"Nah, it's a legitimate complaint," Sniper replied bitterly, his fingers tapping on his folded arm, "I'll ask you again, anyone bothering you?"

Imogen shook her head. "Not anything different from the standard fare; you know us, we get by. It's not for myself that I complain, but for the kids to follow us. Truth be told, I don't think my parents would want to see a social security check now after what we've been put through, but those to come shouldn't have to suffer through this."

Sniper glanced over at his rifle again. "I can always seek out a new contract."

"Killing off the government heads will only make this worse for us," she stated firmly, waving her hand for emphasis, "Someone will be looking for a group to blame."

"Suppose this is a bad time to bring up the fact that my money's still on the table, if you want it?" Sniper inquired.

Nodding her head, Imogen moved to the bureau, over which was draped a pair of pants. Her back to him, she answered, "Kenneth, while I appreciate the offer, I can't take it. That's your money, not mine."

"It ain't a handout, if that's what you're afraid of," he replied firmly, "It's a gift from me."

Imogen shook her head. "No, you'll need it."

He snorted. "For what? Buying booze? Spare tires for my van? A new cleaning rag for my rifle? I have pretty much everything I need already."

She turned slowly, pants in her hands. "You're sure?"

"You ain't gonna owe me anything," he answered, his hands settling over hers with a smirk, "Getting these on already, dear? You need to wash first."

"That coming from you?" She asked with a raised eyebrow, "Kenneth, when's the last time you showered?"

When he released her hands at that, she added with a chuckle, "Not that I mind; the scent gives you character."

He lurched forward, seizing her long black hair to pull her into a crushing kiss, biting her lip. The pants fell to the floor between them. Drawing out, a stream of saliva trailing between them, he murmured, "Come on, love."

Imogen opened her mouth to reply, but just as immediately closed it, her eyes darting down to the distraction of his fingers drawing back her shirt.

XXXXXX

Engineer sighed, looking speculatively at his creation. "We had segregated units when I served. Can't imagine the inner war that would have broken out if it were otherwise; too many guys weren't ready for it." With a sigh, he added, "Most still aren't, come to think of it." Turning to look back at his friend, he elaborated, "Give ol' Adolf a punch in the jaw for Uncle Sam, come home and sit at the back of the bus."

Sniper snorted at that, and turned to look back at the BLU base. "You know that place wouldn't have burned to the ground if their Pyro had been on duty, right?"

Engineer nodded, craning his neck. "Can't blame the kid for being away, though. Japanese New Year is a treat."

Yomura, that was his last name, Sniper remembered hearing. Morgan Yomura, BLU Pyro. A child as American as Engineer by birth, but born of the wrong lineage at the wrong time. Sniper recalled the slight twitch of his fingers once over the trigger of his rifle as he glimpsed the enemy Pyro through his scope. It had been a moment's notice, but it had still left him incredulous. Yomura hadn't beaten or starved him, but yet, that feeling had remained.

"You've celebrated Japanese New Year?" Sniper asked, surprised.

Engineer nodded his head. "Rode my motorbike to San Francisco, back in '48." Cracking his knuckles, he explained, "That was before Hollister. Glad I wasn't there at that point in time." With a sigh, he added, "Had to put Miss Betty away after that happened; too much suspicion."

Sniper tilted his head to the side. "Never rode her again?"

"From time to time," Engineer replied, standing. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he added, "She's still in the garage, and I clean her well. Thing is, being away from the old girl gave me time to focus more on my work." Turning toward BLU's base, he spat. "Son of a bitch has eleven Ph.D's, and I barely have five to my name. What I wouldn't give…"

"That's apples, mate," Sniper comforted.

Engie's shoulders heaved in a sigh, the mini-sentry beside him humming. He turned toward it, and looked over it speculatively. "I've entertained the notion of what would have happened in the war if the technology we had now would have been available to us then, and fair to say, I've given myself a few nightmares about it. Except…"

"Except?" Sniper asked, encouraging him.

"For all the guys I saw fall at Omaha, I can't help but wonder if a dispenser would have saved them."

Sniper removed his aviators at that, and rubbed his eyes at the rays of the sun.

Engineer continued, "Any successes I had in removing the mines really meant nothing when the guys were being shredded apart by the .88 mm gun."

"Nash, wait a moment," the Aussie stopped him, raising his eyes and blinking slowly at the light, "While it might have saved the guys on the beach, it would've made them disposable."

"But it would've saved them," Engineer pressed, his hands splayed out, "They would've come home alive."

Sniper shook his head. "It ain't respawn, mate. They would've been around to fight another day, but it wouldn't have guaranteed them their lives."

"You said you were going to hunt after the contract's up. I take it that it's not just men?" Engineer inquired.

Sniper shrugged. "Whatever puts bread on the table."

"Uh-huh," he replied noncommittally, "That's why you live in a van despite having good pay."

Replacing his aviators and leaning back, Sniper replied, "All right, you caught me."

"Ya don't make many friends as an assassin, Ken," Engineer warned.

"I'm talking to you, aren't I? And I've got myself a flash sheila, so I must be doing something right. What about you, Nash?"

Bracing his foot on the sentry, he replied, "Make smaller inventions like this, and make what money I can from them. I'll have my fun building war machines in the meantime."

"Nothing more?" Sniper asked.

"Maybe have a kid or two, if I can, but hell, I don't think I'm marrying material."

"You're kidding, aren't you? Any girl would like to marry into what you have," Sniper retorted, "Take what you can get; half the time, I wonder why Imogen lets me hang around."

"Because I never left the last war behind, as you didn't," Engineer replied, "I tried to fill the hole it left in me with my bike and my machines, but it isn't enough."

"Poetic," Sniper replied bluntly, sitting up, "What happened to you?"

"What I told you," he replied, dropping his foot back to the dirt with a short cloud of dust, "It was one day, one damn day, but it was more than enough. Guys fell by the score, and I couldn't do anything to help them. But we were expected to soldier on each day, surrounded by that death, and seal it away in our minds. When the parties came after the war, we couldn't shed a tear then; had to be big boys and move on."

"'Least you weren't in the pen," Sniper muttered.

"I'd rather not compare battle scars," Engineer hissed with a wave of the arm, "Unlike Dell, I didn't have the luxury of the family lineage he had. I was lucky to have gotten the first two Ph.D's, and I've been putting myself through school for the following three with the money I made here."

"There a point to going, or are you just trying to outdo Dell?" Sniper asked pointedly.

"Yep, it's the fact that I'll have the right to not live in his shadow anymore," he declared.

"Thought so." Sniper flung his legs over the side of the lawn chair to stand. Bending down to gather up his rifle, he commented, "For such a smart bloke, you have a lot to learn."

"Come again?" Engineer asked, caught off guard.

Sniper pointed his rifle toward the enemy base. "Back in '48, Dell didn't exist, did he?"

"'Course not," Engineer answered, "But that doesn't mean things were perfect."

"I didn't say that," Sniper corrected him as he lifted his rifle over his shoulder, "My advice to you, when the contract's up, forget about Dell."

"Why?" He asked blankly.

"You won't be free until you do," Sniper explained, "Who gives a damn, at the end of the day, he's without a base. You aren't."

"He also has the patents and the kids," he countered.

"And you cheated death on Omaha Beach," Sniper answered carefully, "You lived when others didn't. You're the devil that's always on Dell's shoulder at the end of the day. No matter what he may want, you'll come back, and that drives him insane." With a shrug, he added as an afterthought, "At least, that's what I do to Desmond across the way." He smirked at the memory of seeing the BLU Sniper's lips curl back in an aggravated snarl through his scope as his rival searched in vain for him.

"You make it sound so easy," Engineer muttered, "You haven't moved on, either."

"And I don't think I will," Sniper answered plainly, "I'm a hunter and an assassin because there isn't any changing it."

Engineer looked back between his creation, and toward his mechanical hand.

Sniper turned away from him. "Your choice."

"So that's it, then? Give up on yourself, but tell me to change?" Engineer prompted.

Sniper stopped in his tracks, and hesitated for a moment before answering, "I haven't given up, but I can't go back to what I used to be."

"What about Imogen?"

He shrugged. "I have my place in her bed." Maybe he could take her with him, move back to his parents' farm, and live a proper life, raising children with her and the grandparents-to-be. But it wouldn't work out, and he knew that as well as she. Daddy would be out taking down a target, and he might end up behind bars or gored while Mummy tended the garden. Not to say he hadn't taken her with him in his van before; he had a bed for two in the back. Children were out of the question, anyway, even negating the concept of mixed race. Imogen wouldn't have minded coming with him, he knew that, but he was already dancing on edge with his connection to her. So she waited around for no one, and he wondered how long the charade would continue on.

But the connection was still there, and that was enough, he supposed. He didn't ask for much, and neither did she. Sugar daddy he would never be, he still beat around the bush when it came to mentioning her to his parents. She likewise kept her secret from her family, with the occasional slip from either side here or there.

She'd been a lot less glorious-looking when they had met, the hood of her car up, her hair pinned back by a band, and grease covering her face and shirt. She'd dropped her wrench to pull out a derringer upon seeing him slow to a stop, and stare out at her through the window. "Keep driving," she had growled.

Funny enough, it had ended with her giving him a kiss on the cheek after the engine had fired true, and stuffing her number in his pocket. How lonely she had been, he hadn't known, but even then, he still knew to keep a slight distance. Thing was, Mummy was a little too interested in Daddy's line of work, and knew a little too much about the act of taking a life.

What could he say, he was a glutton for punishment. Let sleeping dogs lie.

Sniping was good job, he could not doubt it. The pay was excellent, and he always went to bed with a feeling of accomplishment. Grasping the rungs of the ladder back up to his lookout, he knew that whatever life he would have had in the past was gone, but there was no crying over it. He was a killer, and damn excellent one, but that would never change.

He gave the unfinished BLU base one last look. He'd see his rival again once it was completed, just as Engineer would see his. Turning away, he spat at the ground. Soldier on.


End file.
